I am trapped in an intolerable sameness
My mind, a weapon firing the same bullet over and over–
killing everything I wake for each day
Trapped in life’s jungle, a purgatory for lost hunters–
those who know where they should be perched–
but can never climb high enough
Earth hardens me, heaven humbles me
Trapped in between, I stare down at God and up at the devil
So much transpires, lustful living chokes out the meek
Promises break, chambers are emptied
Nothing springs back, nothing returns–

nothing, until him
His disarming gunmetal eyes–a grey so pure–
he surely has stolen pigment from Saturn’s rings
My weakest points give way to his bare arms
He becomes what I had prayed for
My spirit rekindles, like a weary grizzly in heat
Freed, my slumbering heart rises from its hibernation
His words turn my winter breath into spring air
Every moving part of his powerful anatomy, targets me–
He parlays brilliant charm and overtakes my trust

Sometime later, the camouflage fades
The sun breaks through the dense canopy
I observe him from a new position–
watching while he is unaware
My mind returns to restless oblivion
There is, I will admit here, a sense of comfort in the chaos
Around me, the entire world stampedes in unison
And I know I can survive by myself

there was this kid
long ago
she liked playin’ piano bellies
from beneath their wooden hulls
didn’t follow
couldn’t follow
pointing fingers
her little brain
had its own direction
above her eyes
the strings
pianos and buttermilk
churned in glass jars
along the highway of years
loaded with orange cones
white lines
not creating
but moving
just the same
just the same
she was no different

I don’t sleep the way I used to
in cool twists and quiet spells I can’t possibly go up the tall stairs to my bedroom without releasing the weight of my fingers into another space my hands will push letters
rivers of white will burst outside my mind I will say things I would not do I will do things I would never say caught in between
like a sturgeon and the silt words as floppy as fishes swim upstream to spawn if not completely undone by the journey will develop into erstwhile muses
then swim back in the other direction

sturgeon

art created last year for an illustrated project

this is a writing piece from last year
I’ve been going through some of my earlier writing
revising the pieces that can be salvaged
many are not wonderful and must be left to
drown in their owner’s ick;)
thank you

“river of white” is actually an old publishing term describing the white spaces created between words on a page

Xaira writes prosy things. Words are tiny red ants mercilessly marching without rest, without sleep. No rejuvenation. Only midnight thoughts, caressing keys like a lover’s flesh or beating the polymer into submission–bully steward with a fidgety wordstick. She is unable to reconcile the happenings inside her body. Xaira lives on the outside looking in from safe distances. She is a tool for the thoughts she claims not to own. Speedboats powering across indecipherable notes kept in a dull black folder. One of several scattered throughout her living space.

She cannot come to terms with her prose–her prosy things. Once the shit slides down the chute, she is no longer in control. Pregnancies never realized. Incomplete humans. She has children. Carried them. Pushed them out. Loved them. Left them. Not sure where they are. Her concern over blood offspring is exclusively for plotting and outline. A mirror to direct a piece of her parceled soul. Xaira exhales for each cogent metaphor. Inhales for each selective allusion. A randomness settles in the air as the night grows thick with complex assertions and exhausted denials. Where does the writing crystallize. Conclusions and closures to build another anthill. Tunneling through the sand, fall and fall, collapsing in weak sections killing the worker-smythes of the folded, gathered and crushed.

Xaira claims no responsibility for her paradoxical musings. Any emotional attachments are not considered. She has room enough only for her creations. Her mind. At least that’s what they say but not better than her. And yet, she has grave doubts. Doubts dwelling in the bottomless corners of her round life. The cobwebs swept away, mine swept to nothingness. Beginning blankly each and every evening. It is always beneath the ever present sky up there. Best when it’s dark and void of the sun’s bright eyes. There is no honesty in the long shadows of moonlight. Xaira once had a wry sense of humor and an easy going smile. Now her fingernails are chewed, the brittle pieces catching in the rug beneath her desk. The only happiness for her is pretending there are those who care for her misunderstood, over-labored prosy things.

She hunts the black cold air. Winter will be bitter this year, the ants will struggle then disappear…

you share things you’ll never sayyou say things you’ll never doyou are a writeryou covet the people behind the liesyour hungry lips crave their nourishing mindsyou are a readerthoughts shove down your fingers like garbage disposalsyou sadly acknowledge huge amounts of crapyou are a writeryou bulldoze the landfill to uncover their trashyou desire arousal sleeping in their dreamsyou are a readeryou beg dark thoughts to channel sensual tonguesyou choke wordless nightmares to asphyxiationyou are a writeryou fearlessly divulge intimate details
without pause, you breathlessly seek their approvalyou are a –

I’m looking for a girl-a young girl. She’s about 4’5″ tall, brown eyes and sports a mussed shag. Chances are she’ll have scabby knees. She’ll most likely be wearing a blue, white and green plaid shirt. Last seen she was riding her bicycle. The stingray is like a vintage sports car in restoration. The metal frame is an odd hue-a sort of sepia puking-up orange color. The seat is banana-shaped and covered in plastic leopard. The girl is one of those tomboy types. And other than to say she’s tough and possesses a sort of indomitable spirit there isn’t much else to dissect. Don’t forget to look up in the trees because she could be hanging out there. Don’t pass by large mounds of dirt without searching either-she loves the stuff and will most likely blend in. She is a fearless kid who has a take charge attitude and a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ smirk. If you should find her you may approach and say ‘hi’. Her name is AnnMarie and she is never at a loss for words. Oh, but don’t mess with her little sister, ’cause AnnMarie will kick your ass.(I’ve been going back to older posts and placing images in some, I apologize if some posts load a little slowly-I’m gettin’ a handle on this photo thing and learning to use other apps to make pretty collages…fearless AnnMarie would be able to help me out. I must find her!)